


Beautiful Music

by Wolfsbride



Category: Pop Music RPF
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/pseuds/Wolfsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthropomorphic smut!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Music

A brisk chill wind whipped Michael’s hair off his forehead and brought with it the sting of salt and the taste of the sea. Knowing he couldn’t release the tension, he ducked his head, quickly swiping his face against his right forearm to rub the tears from his eyes. That small deviation threatened to unbalance him and he firmed his stance, even as he shifted and swayed with the movement of the boat. Then he returned to turning the winch that controlled the tow line of the big seine net being dragged by his father’s salmon boat.

“Put your back into it, lad!” His father called from stern. “Those fish’ll be graduated by the time you haul them aboard.”

He grinned but didn’t bother to waste his breath on responding. He focused on cranking the winch, one painstaking turn at a time, until the net was raised to the height of the deck. Setting the lock, he pulled the lever that dragged the net from parallel to hanging directly over the deck. He was about to release the purse line and drop the fish into the catch hold when something caught his eye.

Curious, Michael scrambled from his spot behind the winch and nimbly ducked and dodged his way towards the hold. He’d learned the early on that things shifted alarmingly on a fishing boat, no matter how hard you tried to keep everything battened down.

When he reached the bulging seine, he gripped it, stopping its diminishing momentum and then walked around it, mindful of the open hole below the net. On the opposite side, he found what he’d glimpsed as he was guiding the net in.

With an excited whoop, he grabbed the knife he carried in the sheath strapped to his belt and was about to slice into the net when a firm hand gripped his wrist.

“What in god’s name are you doing?!” His father’s voice was sharp with surprise.

Michael jumped. He’d been concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard his father approach. Then he looked at what he’d been about to do. “Oh.” He’d almost cut a hole in the seine. The cost of replacing it would have come out of his allowance for the next hundred years. Though knowing his father, he’d make him repair it just to teach him a lesson. And he’d have deserved it too.

“Sorry. Just... Look!” He gestured excitedly with his free hand. “I’ve never seen one up close before!”

“Huh.” His father let go of his wrist. “An old style microphone.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “It’s a Shure 55 Unidyne! It’s history! Grandpa has lots of pictures that show it. He’ll be thrilled!”

“You want to keep it?!”

“Well, of course! It found me.”

“Don’t you mean, you found it?”

Sheathing the knife, Michael leaned forward to get a better look. “Hm. I don’t think so. I mean, it’s weird that it just happened to come up on day I’m manning the line. A singer needs a good mic and Shures were the best.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his father. “So? Can I get it out of the hold when we transfer the fish?”

Smiling fondly, Michael’s father ruffled his windswept hair. “You and your singing. Sure, kid. Just make sure you do your work first before you play.”

“Not playing,” he grumbled under his breath. It was annoying how no one took him seriously. Oh sure, they all told him how he had a good voice and stuff but whenever he talked about wanting to sing as a career, they just smiled and patted his head. Well, everyone except his grandfather.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Michael rubbed a towel briskly over his hair and hung it around his neck as he closed and locked the door to the small room behind him. His dad had cleared a part of the garage out for him and partitioned it off so that he could have some privacy.

He’d hosed himself and the Shure 55 off when they’d docked the boat and now that he was showered and clean; he wanted to see if he could do the same for his find. Before going up to the bathroom, he’d set out some buckets of soapy water and a few balls of steel wool. Amazingly, even the stand and base were intact. He was hoping a little elbow grease and time would take care of the rust.

He lost himself in the steady motion of the scrubbing; only pausing to change balls of steel wool or buckets of water. When he was finished, his arm throbbed angrily, reminding him he’d spent the morning winding a winch but at least now he could see the gleam of unmarred steel.

With a low whistle, he ran his fingertips over his finished work. “Wow. You sure are a beauty.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Demetrio had barely got in the door before Michael grabbed him and started tugging. “Grandpa! You’re not going to believe what I found! Come on!”

“Michael! Good gracious! Let Papa in the house first!” His mother scolded.

“Why? He’s just going to have to go out again. Come on!”

Laughing, Demetrio followed him, ducking under the raised garage door. “Now what’s got you in such a lather, son?”

“Look!” Michael stood proudly next to the Shure, fingers curled familiarly around its neck.

“Oh my! Is that…”

Michael’s grin stretched his face as his grandfather moved closer.

“Why I do believe that’s a…”

“Shure 55 Unidyne!” They finished together.

“Where on earth did you find it?”

“It came up with the last haul. It took a while but I managed to clean it up.”

“So I see! You did a good job.”

Shifting a little, Michael reminded himself not to get his hopes up. “So… Do you think it can be fixed? I mean; it’s great but it’d be even better if it was working.”

Rubbing his chin, Michael’s grandfather made a thoughtful noise. “I might know someone who can. No promises though! But I can ask him to try.”

“That’d be great! Thanks, Grandpa.”

The hard part was letting go so that his grandfather could load the Shure onto his truck. Michael felt like he’d lost a friend.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Michael paced back and forth in his father’s driveway as he waited for his grandfather to arrive. He didn’t care if his grandfather’s friend had or hadn’t gotten the Shure to work. It didn’t matter. He just wanted it back.

When his grandfather’s truck turned the corner on their street, Michael ran to the end of the driveway and bounced impatiently as the truck made its way up to the house. He was pulling the driver’s side door open as soon as the truck stopped moving.

“Well?!”

Laughing, Demetrio nudged Michael out of the way and reached into the back of his truck. Michael moved closer in order to help and the two of them lifted the Shure out and set it carefully on the ground.

“I have to say my friend was sad to see this one go. Offered me a pretty penny to let him keep it, but figured that wouldn’t sit right with you.”

Michael growled at the thought of someone else owning the Shure.

Demetrio slapped his back. “I thought so. Well? What do you think?”

Stepping back, Michael surveyed the finished product. The Shure now sported a new 25 foot cord, looped and tied for easy transporting and the finish, which had gleamed dully after his hard work, shone.

Michael swallowed. “I… It looks… It’s beautiful.” His tone was hushed.

“Well, let’s go try her out.”

“Uh… Do you mind if I...”

Chuckling at Michael’s embarrassment, Demetrio squeezed his shoulder. “You know, if you’re serious about this singing thing; you’ll have to get used to appearing in public.”

“Grandpa! I’m fine with appearing in public. But this is practice. You don’t practice in front of people.”

Giving Michael’s shoulder a final squeeze, Demetrio nodded. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Michael watched him go inside before lifting the Shure, cord and all and taking it into the garage.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It hummed when he switched it on. Michael knew it was just some sort of feedback but that’s what it sounded like when he’d connected it to his speaker and flipped the switch. He adjusted the stand so that the head was situated in front of his mouth. Closing his eyes, Michael inhaled and exhaled slowly, then breathed in again before running through his vocal scales.

He shivered as the notes filled garage. He’d never heard himself like this before. The shower had good acoustics but it didn’t carry his voice. He could actually hear how well he sang. His dream of becoming a singer seemed just a little closer now.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Michael stalked into his studio, glad to be done for the night. Awards were fine. Award parties were not. If he’d had to smooze and smile and shake hands for one more minute, he would have strangled someone.

He didn’t mind fans. They were like-minded people. They enjoyed the music for the music’s sake. He hated having to sell himself. Performing was one thing. However, there were some people that didn’t seem to understand the performance ended when he walked off the stage.

Locking the studio door, he slipped out of his jacket and tossed it on the large couch pressed against one wall. In front of the couch was a low table, with piles of pads of paper - his catchall. There was a small fridge in one corner, where he kept water, pop, juice and some munchies for when he remembered to eat while in the middle of working on a song or routine.

An upright piano graced the wall opposite the couch. More pads of paper were stacked there. The rest of the room was taken up with recording equipment, speakers, and amps. And in the middle, center stage, was his old and faithful friend.

Shure 55 Unidyne.

It was more weathered now. A little battered. But then so was he.

They’d done it though. They’d accomplished his dream. Together.

He wasn’t allowed to take it on stage anymore. He had to move with the times. It was stupid. Hadn’t he made a career out of singing bits of musical history? But after several complaints about how his Shure didn’t play well with the more modern equipment, he had acquiesced.

It didn’t matter. In this room he could be himself.

Still wired from the evening, Michael moved over to the sound equipment. He knew from experience that he’d never get to sleep if he didn’t burn off the adrenaline first. Usually, a few rounds of sex would do it but he was between lovers at the moment and he didn’t feel like becoming the latest tabloid extravaganza by hooking up with a one night stand. He’d have to burn it off some other way.

He pushed a few buttons and a low sultry beat filled the room.

Walking back to the middle of the room, he reached out with the intention of turning it on. A spark of static electricity zapped him, making his fingers tingle. Michael smiled, then nudged the switch.

The Shure 55 hummed to life as it always did. Michael had long ago ceased to wonder about that quirk. Unknotting his tie, he took it from around his neck and tied it around the neck of the microphone.

“Better you than me.” Then he laughed at himself. He felt more relaxed already.

With the music pulsing in the background, he closed his eyes and let his fingers slowly drift down the neck and length of the microphone stand. He played with the rough edge of the adjustor, without doing anything to actually change the microphone’s height. It was enough to rub his thumb back and forth over the coarse lip.

The tempo of the music lay heavy over the room and Michael started to sway his hips, side to side, little circles. People were always shocked when he said dancing was like sex with your clothes on. He didn’t know why. It felt like the truth to him.

As his hips rocked, both hands moved back up until he was cradling the head of the Shure tenderly, like a lover. The metal responded, warming to his touch. He could visualize the copper coil, taut, waiting for his breath.

The words flowed out of him even though he wasn’t paying attention. The coil quivered, thrummed. He could feel the tremor in the tips of his fingers where they were lightly pressed against the skin of the Shure. His voice filled the room even though he was whispering sweet nothings.

The music deepened and Michael slipped one hand down to the middle of the stand and then dipped the Shure as if it were a real dance partner. He’d never have to worry about sore toes. He tossed it from one hand the other and then straightened, executing a little spin as he did so.

The key of the music changed, shifting the beat into a heavier drive and Michael went with it, feet moving in time, complicated patterns that required no thought. His heart thudded against his chest as he swung the Shure around, sometimes dragging it along the floor as he danced.

On a crescendo, he pulled the Shure close and hissed as the metal body pressed firmly against him. The sound was startlingly loud despite the pounding music and Michael wrapped a leg around the Shure without a thought.

His head dropped back as his hips continued to move, a soft moan taking the place of whatever song he’d been singing. He could feel the vibration of his voice shivering down the stand and into his body. He forced himself to continue to sing, enjoying the way the music felt.

The song being played raced along and Michael twined himself tighter around the Shure and gave what he figured would have been another award winning performance. The bump of the adjustor rubbed against him as he shifted and he could feel the harsh touch even through the material of his pants.

As both he and the music rushed to the climax, Michael forgot to sing. Heavy breathing and soft sounds were all that he could manage. It didn’t matter. He was so close to the end. His hips thrust frantically for several minutes, then the rhythm shattered and he was coming, hard and fast.

The music faded away and he slumped to the floor, still curled around his Shure 55 Unidyne. He stayed there, waiting for his body to recover, fingers idly stroking the base. When he felt like he’d be able to move his arms and legs without melting, he sat up, then stood up and shuffled slowly to the door.

Too bad the studio didn’t have a shower. Probably intentional. He’d never leave if it did.

He unlocked the door, let himself out and then locked it again. Shower. Then bed. And then tomorrow maybe he’d write a new song.


End file.
